


The Custodian's Guide to Being in Love

by Endriya



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22258150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endriya/pseuds/Endriya
Summary: Constantin Valdor has never been quite sure of what to think about Omegon. Nor is he sure how such a masterful geneticist and creator as the Emperor only managed to give 1 out of 21 primarchs the gene for common decency. Nor how Alpharius, his identical twin, missed out on that gene.What he is sure of is that every time he gets close to Omegon, his nerves light themselves on fire and his brain forgets half of who he is.Omegon has lost half of who he is, and isn't sure how he feels about that. Only two people have ever seemed to judge him for what he is and can do, rather than what he was and could not. Alpharius is dead. The other — well, he still has Constantin.But there are still wars to be won, an Archtraitor to be dealt with and, what's more — what will the Emperor think?
Relationships: Omegon/Constantin Valdor
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	1. I.  He likes it when you hold him.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a little while ago and thought I might share it now. I'll try to update it on a weekly basis. 
> 
> As a warning, most of this is unedited, and it certainly has not been checked over by anyone with knowledge of the lore, so if you spot any glaring errors, feel free to let me know.  
> Other than that, feedback, thoughts, comments, questions etc. are appreciated. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

Constantin Valdor stops dead and the person opposite does too.  
"Lord Omegon," he greets, even as his hand tightens around the Apollonian Spear, muscles bunching up in preparation to strike.  
On the other side of the room, the gold-plated figure turns, jewels casting dancing shapes about the chamber as the intricate pattern of his armour catches in the light and gleams. Naturally bronze, the face he is now presented with is pale and perturbed, and worried eyes sparkle from turquoise to blue.  
"Constantin," the primarch returns, although the effort seems to cost him.  
Valdor watches as his eyes run over his body, taking in the tension. "I am not here to fight you but to fight with you. To take up the mantle of the Legio Custodes once more." Pausing, Omegon swallows. "The legion is shattered." A longer pause this time, and a slight trembling of the lip as now-emerald eyes fill with water. "He is dead."  
Instinctually, Valdor steps forwards to hold him and holds him tight; he knows ineffably that this is the truth and still recalls vivid memories of the pain it had caused Omegon when he had previously been separated from his twin: the way he had curled into himself and sobbed when he was supposed to be sleeping, the joy with which the two had reunited for the first time since their 'birth' when Alpharius had finally managed to make contact with the Imperium.  
So he clutches the primarch in his arms, feels the reciprocating movement as Omegon grasps onto him one-handed, the other arm still cradling his helmet, and regrets that he has not acted quickly enough to prevent the tears which now wet his pauldron.  
Valdor strokes his companion's head as he weeps, trying to be as gentle as possible against the smooth skin, although it does not come easily to him and is an effort hindered by the bulk of his gauntlet.  
Breathing deeply, he appreciates, not for the first time, that Omegon smells nice.  
It isn't, no matter how he tries, something he can ever put into any more words then that; he simply smells nice. At best, he thinks, he could say something poetic, like how he smells like a warm winter's day, a welcome respite from the scorching summer heat of his very proximity; or like a new weapon or piece of armour, primed and ready and just right in his grip; or like the sunrise which brings light to the Himalazians, and the sunset which restores them to peace and coolness.  
That all means nothing, though, with regards to what he actually smells like; he smells nice.  
Eventually, Omegon seems to relax into him, body no longer shaking in quite the same way.  
"He was lost a long time ago," he murmurs, "but I suppose I had always had the hope..."  
Valdor pats his back through their armour.  
"All the same, I'm sorry for your loss."  
Omegon manages a smile, then shakes his head.  
"I am sorry," he mutters, "I came here to help and all I have done so far is busy the Captain-General by crying on his shoulder."  
"It's fine," Valdor says quickly.  
Omegon can cry on his shoulder any time he likes. 

Soon, the Palace will be full to the brim with refugees but for now, Valdor takes Omegon to a nearby unused room with a suitably large bed and they lie together; he does not think that the primarch is ready to be left alone again yet.  
He finds himself staring into the captivating oceanic eyes of the being nestled against him as they lie in peace, wishing that they could not be wearing their armour, although he knows that this is not right.  
"Do you feel better, now?" he asks and Omegon smiles. He looks so pretty when he smiles.  
"Yes, thank you."  
And Constantin can't help but smile back.  
"I am glad."  
As he strokes his hand over the primarch's head, grateful that he has at least taken off his gauntlet now and so can feel his warm skin, Omegon shifts a little closer. His heart leaps. He wants to be closer still. "I am glad that you are here, as well," he murmurs. Then he adds quickly, "We need everyone we can get to aid in the defense."  
Omegon stares up into his eyes.  
"I'm glad to be here."  
The light blush that colours his cheeks is exceptionally sweet and before he can help himself, Valdor finds that he has pressed a kiss to the primarch's forehead.  
Pulling back, he takes a moment to clear his head.  
"I'm sorry."  
Perhaps it is just the low light, but Omegon seems to blush deeper now as he shakes his head.  
"I-" He shifts closer again. "I don't mind."  
So Valdor wraps his arm a little tighter around him and kisses his forehead again, then draws his head back to look the primarch in the face. He looks, he thinks, gorgeous.  
He kisses him again, and again, and pulls him even closer. They are pressed against each other now, separated only by their armour.  
He wants to be closer.  
As he studies Omegon's face, which now looks a little less drawn than it had, Valdor realises that he wants to kiss his lips. There is no reason that he can discern for this desire, other than the burning ache inside him which cries, "closer!"  
Valdor has come across, in the course of his idle studies, the established paragon of what lips should be like: full, soft and red.  
Omegon's lips are not like that. They are chapped and cracked, raw in some places where he has bitten off flaky bits of dried skin. Pale, almost grey, and ashen. His lips are thin, like Alpharius's, like the Warmaster's.  
_Alpharius_ , he tries to think, hoping that this will distract him from what he should not be thinking, _Horus_. But Omegon's eyes are not brown like the Archtraitor's, and they are not cold like Alpharius's.  
He wants to kiss him. He wants to be closer.  
At length, Valdor realises that he has to meet with the Council.  
He sighs inwardly; there is only one primarch he ever enjoys dealing with, and that primarch is cuddled in the bed with him now. Nevertheless, he informs Omegon that he must leave, kissing him once more on the forehead and savouring the feel of his battle-hardened skin.  
_Closer._  
His body has never felt so heavy as when he drags it away.


	2. II. He has a family. (You hate his brothers.)

Omegon treads the ghostly corridor with his helmet on his head, for fear of coming across some occupant of the palace who might mis-recognise him as Alpharius.   
The air is still. That is well; he has no desire to be found.   
He passes through a barren, magnificent hallway and stops to stare.   
There, on the balcony. That is where he had watched as Horus had arrived for the first time at the Palace.   
He had not yet learnt to shield his aura, so he had kept his distance; as long as he had been separated from Alpharius, he had always felt incomplete and unsure, such that he had no desire to reveal himself to his brother. That had turned out for the best.   
As he walks up the stairs, momentarily lost in memory, he remembers how, prior to the arrival of his brothers, Constantin had thought him hot-headed. He remembers the look on the Custodian's face as he realised that Omegon's temper had nothing on his brother's. He remembers watching each and every one of his brothers walk through the doors opposite and into the hall, some in open awe, some faking calm, some clearly raving mad, even then. He wonders how things might have been different if none of them had ever had to walk through that hall for the first time, fear and wonder on their faces.   
He will never know.   
There is one brother, though, whom he did not watch from behind the column at the corner of the landing.   
He greeted Alpharius at the spaceport, unable to contain his excitement.   
He remembers that he was wearing normal robes, in order that he did not get into trouble for bringing disregard to the Legio Custodes.   
He had stood next to Lord Malcador under the guise of First Captain of the Alpha Legion, bouncing on the balls of his toes until the man laughed and said pointedly that no one would ever have imagined that the boy he had been would grow up to be so energetic, at which point he planted his feet firmly on the ground and did his best not to fidget.   
When the ship arrived and the landing pods were launched, he hardly checked his anticipation and, upon the first hint of Alpharius being seen on the disembarkation ramps, burst forwards to greet him with a crash that would have knocked his brother over, if he had not matched Omegon's momentum; instead, they were swung violently around each other.   
A good thing, he thinks, brushing his fingers along the balustrade, that he had not been wearing his armour.   
From that moment, it had been unquestionable that they were one, nothing more than a piece of the other which could not survive alone. They had done everything together: ate, fought, schemed. Of all the unions in the galaxy, their's had been the greatest, closest, and most enduring.   
And now, he thinks, this. His other piece first lost, and then gone. Him, alone.   
He realises that he is about to cry, then that he has already cried all of his tears onto Valdor's golden pauldron.   
Constantin Valdor. Maybe, he thinks, he is not alone. Not whole, but not alone. 

"Your sources have told you well." is the first thing the Emperor says when he is knelt before him.   
He looks as tired as Omegon had been led to expect, his eyes tightly closed against distractions from his task.   
"Father," he replies, not knowing what else to say; it has been so long since he has seen him, and the context of the situation only adds to his awkwardness.   
There is no answer for a significant time, until his father seems to sigh.   
"Come closer, Omegon."   
Without warning, his eyes flutter open.   
Omegon finds himself regarded with a somewhat impersonal interest, then warm compassion as he leaves his helm on the floor and approaches the behemothic throne before him on unsteady, overwhelmed legs. "Come, my son."   
He halts halfway up the steps under his father's scrutiny. "You are weighed down, Omegon; tell me your story."   
"I-" His mouth goes dry. "After Alpharius died?"   
"Whatever you need to say."   
"I —"


	3. III.  He gives you reason to worry. (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be honest, this isn't my best work. Fortunately, if you do want to skip it, you won't lose much; it's only Omegon's account of his return to Terra.

Even before Alpharius had died, he had planned his escape, constructing in secret a small vessel, basic on the inside but with an outer cladding of the best stealth technology that his legion had to offer, augmented by what he had succeeded in purloining from the Raven Guard during his time with them. He stocked this ship with as much in the way of supplies that could be fitted and did his best to make it homely, aware that he would be stuck in the small cabin, alone, for a very long while.  
He failed.  
He knew that the time to leave had come when his officers were sufficiently emboldened by the chaos to which the legion as a whole had fallen that they began to make allusions to overheard whisper-arguments between himself and Alpharius.  
None of them knew that he had served as part of the Legio Custodes but they had picked up on his twin's snide accusations that he was naught but 'the Emperor's guard dog' and would perhaps be better to return to 'strutting the hallways of the Imperial Palace in polished dinner plates', and so realised that his loyalties were not necessarily where Alpharius's had been.  
With every step he took, every order he gave, every day that passed, he could feel the many-headed noose slip tighter, encircling him as one just like the beast from which they had always taken inspiration. He knew that is he stayed much longer, he would suffocate.  
Decided, he summoned all those who knew of Alpharius's death to a meeting and locked the door from the outside; he could not have them interfering.  
He donned his Effrit armour and took a moment to feel it, the familiar way in which it cloaked him.  
Not long.  
All at once he felt his heartbeats like never before, his dry mouth, the slight layer of perspiration on his skin. It was not a feeling he had ever felt before, not a feeling he knew. 

_— Nervousness? Primarchs don't get nervous. Well... Maybe. —_

He walked through the corridors in a state of hyper-awareness, mind always wandering to the worst possible scenarios: the officers broke out; no, he'd fortified the room himself especially: the ship had been found; impossible — only he had access to the hangar in which it was: his calculations were wrong and he'd have to leave the job half-finished; that, he reasoned, would be something to figure out at the time.  
The vessel was where he'd left it, how he'd left it, and the process of undocking from the mothership and moving away was seamless. He took a moment to breathe.  
Now to do it.  
Steeling his nerve, he made contact with the Alpha.  
"I am Alpharius."  
They knew it was true. "A group of traitors have been discovered and are now localised on the Beta. In order to remove this scourge from our legion you must destroy the Beta, on my order."  
They agreed unquestioningly.  
Then, he did the same with the other flagship, then connected with both, muting their speakers. "Three, two, one,"  
The guns fired in silence and the two behemoths buckled and splintered, debris flying out to pierce the accompanying fleet until all that was left was carnage.  
His calculations had been correct, then. "Hydra dominatus," he whispered into empty static. 

The journey to Terra was unforgiving.  
He sat alone in the cabin, scratching off the solar days of solitude as they passed; he got to over 400 before he lost track.  
Some days, he despaired. Others, he was filled with a fervent energy too expansive to be released within the confines of his space. He started what passed for a day by eating and shaving and then, if he could rouse himself to do so, stretching to the best of his ability. Next, he would check his course before settling down to play himself at Regicide, read one of the few books he'd had room to bring or, when all else failed, curl into himself to kick and scream and cry out at the unfairness of it all, wishing nothing more than to land on the nearest planet and find Alpharius there laughing with him and that the past few years had not happened at all. He did not want to be alone.  
He spent what his body told him were nights thinking over the centuries of his life, although he couldn't decide whether it was worse to remember his infancy with his father, with whom he had barely had contact since the arrival of Alpharius; his formative years with the Custodes, whom he had also not seen since he had left Terra; or to recall his time with Alpharius, which was tinted with regret.  
As, at long last, he neared the Sol System, he had to slow his engine speed in order to direct power back into his cloaking mechanisms and it was then that Omegon realised that his ship was nearly out of fuel.  
He was not going to make it.  
This was during one of his despondent moods, so he spent many hours in a hopeless bundle on the floor before finally some corner of his mind realised that, if he did not make it to Terra, he would never see his father and Con- _the Custodes_ again.  
So he picked himself off the hard surface, took a moment to curse his choice of azure for the walls — he was sure he'd read somewhere that blue was supposed to make you calmer and happier but this shade, he quickly discovered, was revolting — and began to plot his course of action. 

Safely nestled in the underbelly of the Imperial Fist patrol ship, he took his first few days to sneak around and just enjoy hearing the voices of other people, seeing them interact.  
In those days, it took all of his self-control to not be found on purpose just to be able to talk to someone who wasn't him pretending to be Alpharius in the mirror. He could, he reasoned, plead his innocence and beg to be taken before the Emperor, or at least the Captain-General of the Custodian Guard. What was more likely, if he was lucky, was that he would be dragged before Rogal Dorn, where he would find his death in a rage of misplaced vengeance.  
So he kept himself hidden as he found and tapped the Fists' fuel reserves, hoping that this would not jeopardise their mission, and stole data regarding their course in order to best time his departure.  
He knew he shouldn't.  
Nevertheless, while he waited to depart, he spent more time skulking around, observing humans and Astartes alike through the glass wall of the classification of 'traitor'. One day, he was caught, but it was little trouble to throttle the chapter serf, send his body out into space and remove the name 'Ollanius Pius' from ship records, so he would not be missed.  
It was the following day that he forced himself into solitude once more with the promise that it wouldn't be for long and ejected from the battle barge in the direction of Terra.  
Not long. 

It took only a few hours from landing to trek to the Inner Palace, where he found distressingly few Custodians on guard.  
A mixed blessing, as this is what allowed him to sneak into the Hall of Names to collect his armour, stowing the Alpha Legion plate where it would not be found nor looked for.  
Bursting once more with uncontrollable excitement, he found his way to where he expected that Constantin Valdor would arrive eventually, and waited.  
Then, he came to see his father.


	4. IV.  He has emotions.

The Emperor thinks on this in silence for a while.  
"We will have to retrieve your ship," he concludes, eventually. "It must be a masterpiece indeed, to have evaded the notice of my Custodes."  
"I don't ever want to see the inside of it again."  
That is the truth.  
"We can redecorate."  
"Perhaps."  
This, Omegon thinks, is beginning to feel a little more like their old relationship, the clumsiness of their exchange slipping a little.  
"Shall I tell Constantin to arrange this or," his eyes take on a playful glint which unnerves Omegon, "did you want to?"  
"I don't mind," he replies, wondering quite what that knowing look on his father's face could mean.  
Losing their spark, his eyes go glossy for a brief moment, then,  
"There, it is done. I have ordered that the ship be recovered in secret." The Emperor pauses. "And you should remain hidden as well; we do not need any more of your brothers to suffer crises of faith now. They have caused enough trouble as it is."  
He closes his eyes and takes a long moment to draw in breath. "Forgive me, I should not speak of them that way. Some are still loyal."  
"You must be in great pain," Omegon defends him.  
"That does not excuse badmouthing those few allies I have left," his father murmurs. "I would that this had never happened, but it has. I have lost ten of my sons to gain one." The Emperor reopens his eyes to gaze into Omegon's face.  
"I would have thought that you would have regrown your hair," he announces, suddenly. "You looked good with it long."  
Self-conscious, Omegon pats the top of his head, then shakes it. He is not ready to let go of Alpharius yet.  
The Emperor seems to understand.  
"What else troubles you, my son?"  
By this point, there is only one question left burning in Omegon's mind.  
"When will I join the fight?"  
An abrupt yet ineffable shift seems to occur within his father and the room at large.  
"The fight?"  
"In the Webway, Father. The one my 'sources' told me about."  
"Perhaps I should rephrase: 'when'?"  
"How soon?" It is then that he realises to what conclusion the Emperor is trying to guide him. "You mean to say that I won't fight on the front lines?"  
"You will not."  
And Omegon is bereft; already stripped of purpose once with the fall of his legion, he finds yet again that it has been taken from him.  
"Father, I am a Custodian, and the War in the Webway is a fight for the Custodian Guard. You agreed to me joining. Why agree to something you won't now follow through?"  
The Emperor closes his eyes again briefly and, when he speaks one more, the strain in his voice is not just from the effort of guarding Terra.  
"Have you come here to seek your death?"  
"'Only in death does duty end.' I have come here to do my duty and that," he tells him, trying his utmost not to hiss, "that is to fight, with the rest of the Custodians, as a Custodian, because I am a Custodian."  
"There are other duties which must be done." Omegon starts to object but the Emperor ploughs on. "When all of the refugees are within the palace, someone will need to guard them. You may do that."  
And Omegon is livid. He spent years acting behind — effectively — his own back; he holed himself up in a barely spaceworthy ship, alone, for he does not know how long; he blew up the better part of his legion; all to come to Terra and fight this fight for his Father, and now to be told that he cannot.  
"If I were Alpharius-"  
"It would make no difference."  
"Father, I am not frail anymore!"  
"It would make no difference."  
"I am strong now! I am not the crippled child I was! I am not bedridden and that I have been in the past makes no indication-"  
"Omegon!" The force of the word hurt. "It would make no difference if you were Alpharius, if you were Rogal, if you were Horus. Nor would it make a difference if you had never fallen from your pod, or if you had, but had never recovered from your injuries, and were still in that same bed attached to that same machine. I know that you have always wished to be seen as no more than one of the Ten Thousand, and that can be the case. But do you think they would be throwing this tantrum because they aren't to do what they expected? Has Constantin because he is not down below?"  
He lowers his head. "Duty comes in many forms, and this is yours. No one else can do it like you can. No other Custode has the empathy, the emotional experience to deal with the refugees. No other but you."  
"Yes, Father," he whispers. For the first time, his Father's face resolves into a clear expression; a kind smile. "I do not think you are weak, Omegon. You have told me already of the personal hell you have braved to come here. And you are here! Alpharius is not. Horus is not. Rogal — well," he laughs a little, but it grows fainter as he does so, just as his voice has been doing all this time. "Rogal is here. But the point is that Alpharius is not. How could anyone ever question your strength knowing that?  
"I know it. You are strong, my son, and you are capable of greater things than I might have imagined if I could not see you now. But — to do those things, you must care for yourself.  
"Omegon."  
"Father?"  
"I want you to take a few days to rest, to recuperate, and to mourn. You need it."  
"Father,-"  
"And when you are refreshed, and you have come to terms with your loss — do not pretend, Omegon, that you have done so already — then, and only then, go forth and make yourself proud. Will you promise me that?"  
"Yes, Father." he says, a little more strength back in his voice. "I promise."  
"Come closer."  
He ascends the last few steps to come to a stop before his creator and, although the movement is more pained than ever, the Emperor smiles. With great effort, one tremoring arm lifts from the side of the throne and a hand takes his, guiding it up for his father to kiss. "Be well..."  
The hands drops and the Emperor falls silent.  
Omegon stands for a while in the grandiose hall, his hand still with his father's, before leaning down to press his own kiss to the Emperor's cheek.  
"I'll make you proud, Father."  
Like his hand, the Emperor's face is clammy on the surface, underlain by a feverish heat.  
Omegon steps back and starts down the stairs and out of the hall, turning back a few steps from the door to march back to the middle of the room to pick up his helmet. Given what his father has said and that he has the face of a traitor, he would not like to so brazenly walk through the hallways where his brothers might see him without it on his head.  
Nearly at the door again, he pauses when,  
+Omegon. If you would like, you can meet your brother Vulkan.+  
Omegon thinks about it, then he thinks about how large Vulkan is, and how he looks like a known turncoat, and decides that it's better he doesn't.


	5. V.  He has emotions. (II)

Omegon goes to the library, to the section where all the restricted materials containing texts with references to gods and mythological elements are kept, in which he finds a group of Custodes discussing the works of the great historian Shaks-Pierre.  
In Omegon's experience, most of the Ten Thousand favour the account he had titled 'Macbeth', and could spend long hours discussing the uselessness of the king's guards, and whether the titular characters got what they deserved or whether they deserved worse. He remembers that, the last time he discussed this story with the other Custodes, he had made a passing comment that maybe the witches, or Hecate, had been inspired by the Emperor; his companions had not been amused and so he made a note to keep those irreverent comments to the company of the Emperor himself.  
Personally, Omegon has always found a certain intrigue in 'Twelfth Knight'.  
The Custodians, a tired looking group sporting all manner of major injury, do not seem bothered when he sits with them which, given his similar appearance to a traitor primarch and that he has not been seen for many years, Omegon concludes means that an announcement must have been made about him while he was not listening to the vox. He wonders how his undented, undulled armour must appear to them.  
He settles quickly and without fuss into a debate on the possible real events of 'Amid Summer Night's Dream' and how Shaks-Pierre could possibly have got so confused when writing it.  
Thundering footsteps. They can only belong to a primarch.  
The door bangs open.  
Panicked, Omegon grabs his helmet and hides behind a bookshelf, from where he can peer through a hole in the wood.  
Rogal Dorn.  
He is staring, scowling at the group Omegon has just left, face filled with shock and horror. His fist clenches, relaxes, clenches again. His eyes start to dart around the room and he mutters something under his breath.  
"Lord Dorn?  
Daze ended, Dorn snaps his attention onto the Custodians.  
"Yes?"  
"Is something wrong?"  
Dorn frowns. He looks tired, haggard, pale.  
"No, I- I just-" He draws himself up with a gasping breath. "Nothing is wrong." Turning on the spot, Dorn marches away.  
He does, Omegon thinks, look like he has seen better times.  
Once he is sure his brother is gone, he slips back out to the table. 

"I'm sorry," Omegon begins, breaking the silence, "that I did not come back sooner. Or at all."  
"Do not be."  
"I am."  
"You are here now. That is what matters." That is — not quite all that matters, although a part of his mind screams that it is. The Emperor, the rest of him knows, duty, is what matters most.  
Valdor looks down into watery aquamarine and wonders what the Emperor thinks of this. Does He know? Does He approve? He has not said anything on the matter.  
Reflexively, he reaches to wipe the tear that has just left Omegon's eye from his cheek, where it falls towards the bed in which they lie.  
The primarch chokes out a sob from where he is pressed against him, warm even through their auramite.  
"You must think me weak."  
"No." Valdor dares then to lean in and kiss him again, lips brushing Omegon's cheek. His companion flushes through his tears and presses yet closer. "Alpharius?" he asks, then kisses his forehead.  
"Yes. I'm sorry."  
"Don't be."  
"I just- Can't stop thinking about what went wrong. About-" He breaks off to cry in earnest, shaking alarmingly and clutching Constantin in an ever tighter grip.  
For his part, Valdor reaches up a hand to stroke his head again, the other arm holding him near, mind spinning with the desperate need to make the precious figure before him smile again, genuinely.  
"I am here for you."  
It cannot be comfortable, he thinks, the way Omegon's face is pressed against his breastplate, eyes closed, lips slightly parted in his grief. "Tell me anything you wish."  
At long last, Omegon shakes his head.  
"I don't want to waste your time," then, before Valdor can object to that idea, "and I wouldn't know what to say."  
He thinks on that as he absent-mindedly kisses the primarch's temple on repeat.  
"You could write a letter. It wouldn't have to be read by anyone if you don't want to, and you can address it to whoever you would like. Even Alpharius, if that helps you to...get it off your chest."  
These concepts are unfamiliar to him but he hopes that this is sound advice.  
"Perhaps," Omegon sniffs. Then, he nods. "I'm glad I'm with you."  
Valdor kisses him again and is surprised when Omegon wriggles upwards, so that their faces are level, and presses a kiss to his cheek as well.  
He smiles, beautiful, painful, precious, eyes still red and puffy, face still wet, but radiant nevertheless. 

When Valdor checks in on him later, he sees the primarch hunched low over a sheet of parchment, weeping once more.


	6. VI.  He has work to do (and you do too).

Omegon is dressed not in his ornate golden armour, but the more subdued plate of the Effrit Stealth Squad, his helmet in one arm, and a bundle in the other. Valdor takes a moment to wish that they had had the time to remake the armour in auramite, noticing as he does so the way the blackened blue brings out the lively colour in Omegon's eyes.   
It would be a lie to say that he has never looked so gorgeous, but that does not prevent Valdor from appreciating his stunning features.   
Joltingly, as if spontaneously remembering something, the primarch steps forwards and holds out the bundle for Valdor to take.   
"Will you look after this for me, until I get back?"   
"Of course."   
He takes it, feels it in his hands. Valdor does not know what it is and does not ask.   
Taking a deep breath, Omegon steps back.   
"I'm ready," he tells them, resolute.   
Behind him is the ship in which he arrived, an untidy thing which has suffered from the secrecy of its creation, but beautiful nonetheless, and functional; it is still a matter of shame amongst the Custodian Guard that the small vessel managed to slip through the Terran atmosphere unspotted. At least, he reasons, they have updated their software since.   
"Your father wishes you the safest of journeys, and the best of luck in your mission." Lord Malcador is the only other person present. "As you know, He cannot be here to tell you that Himself."   
Omegon nods.   
All at once, Valdor feels that he must say something, although he does not know what. What he does know is that he might never see the primarch before him again and that that thought brings him physical pain.   
"Good luck," he mutters, unable to help himself as he steps forwards.   
"Thank you."   
"I-"   
Omegon's attention is fixed solely on him now and they are close, too close, and he thinks he might combust.   
"It's not long now," Omegon fills in when Valdor fails to find any words of his own. "Not long until the traitors are destroyed, and then I'll be back."   
"I look forwards to it."   
"I think I'll stay," Omegon says idly, almost to himself. "The legion is dead; there's nothing else to do."   
His chest clenches and writhes at the casual way in which the primarch discusses his future, as if he is not worried that it will not come.   
They have come closer now, so close that he could reach out and hold him and never let him go; never let him leave to the enemy stronghold. Constantin does reach out, but his hand only lands on Omegon's arm.   
He looks into sapphire eyes and something inside of him erupts.   
Omegon's lips are rough and abused but for a moment Valdor is lost in them, in their depth, in their warmth.   
Then, before Omegon can react, he comes to his senses and pulls away. He can taste the primarch now on his own lips.   
"Take care of yourself," he manages at length, and Omegon has developed into a bright carnation pink by the time he nods in reply.   
Valdor forces himself to step back, forces himself to watch as the primarch turns and walks into the ship, and as the door closes, and as the vessel launches itself spacewards.   
They stand and stare for a little while longer.   
"Well?" the Imperial Regent eventually breaks the silence. "How was it?"   
Confused, Valdor looks at him. "The kiss," the old man elaborates.   
"His lips are dry. He needs lip balm."   
And Lord Malcador laughs. Valdor does not understand why. 

Omegon is bored. He knows he should not be; he is currently lying on a beam above his fallen brother, watching as Horus raves to himself about traitors, lunatics and truants. Nevertheless, given that he's been watching this very same scene on repeat for over a year, he feels that his boredom is somewhat justified.   
Not long now.   
Inside his helmet, his hair has grown out and is now plastered to his skin with sweat, sticking out at odd angles, unruly and wild. He has a full beard now too, which he dreads to see, and already in his mind's eye he knows that it will be thick, black, and dripping with perspiration.   
It is an oft ignored disadvantage of sneaking around enemy ships, that shaving facilities are somewhat limited.   
Something is about to happen, so Omegon stops fretting about the state of his personal grooming and filters back into the flow of the speech in the room.   
Void shields down. Just as the Emperor predicted.   
He leans over the edge of the strut to see the endpoints of the scattered translation, then slips away while the Chaos affiliated preemptively toast his father's demise.


	7. VII.  He gives you reason to worry. (II)

Omegon clears the Emperor's path first. That was what he had instructed — _'I can kill Horus without help. I just need you to stop him from killing Sanguinius first.'_  
He dances through the chambers and hallways, slicing and weaving through the treacherous marines until he hears the sounds of his father's battle ahead of him and knows that he can do little more.  
Then, he clears the path he has been told that both Constantin and Dorn will end up on; his father has assured him that Dorn will follow the bodies under the assumption that that is the way to him, and Valdor already knows of his mission.  
It is as Omegon is ensuring that the two _will_ end up on this path together that a sudden scintillation creeps into the corner of his lens and he has no time to twist, no time to move out of the way of the unexpected blade which pierces the joint of his armour at the hip, delving deep through soft, yielding flesh and scraping against bone.  
He swears.  
Then the deformed creature is vanquished by his own weapon and he is stumbling away, limping, trailing blood.  
The Emperor ordered him not to die; he will do as ordered.  
Omegon snaps the hilt from the sword and pulls himself up into the ventilation shafts to return early to his beam overlooking Horus.  
He hopes he has done enough. 

Sanguinius is there already, is losing already; Horus has his throat in his hands and is hissing — be it to himself or to his once-beloved brother Omegon does not know — as he squeezes, both of their faces now an odd, reddish shade of purple.  
Omegon can feel his hearts. He wants to act.  
_"Omegon, whatever you do, you must promise me that you won't get yourself killed. Stay out of harm's way."_  
But what can he do against this brother of his, swollen with the power of Chaos as he is? How can he not do anything?  
Sanguinius is thrashing now, bloodshot eyes wild, hands scrabbling desperately for anything that might save him.  
And the door opens. The Emperor has come.  
"Father."  
Omegon knows the gleam in Horus's eyes even from his distance as he has seen this particular madness up close in Alpharius many times before.  
Apparently almost forgotten, Sanguinius is thrown effortlessly to the side so that the Archtraitor can face his true enemy and crashes, then rolls, to a stop on the floor nearby. He does not move.  
Knowing that he may not participate in the imminent showdown, Omegon does not pause to observe it as he jumps down to the ground, staggers as the sword in his hip shrieks across his pelvis. He rushes to the fallen Angel and starts to heave him onto his side, aware of the awkward angle of his wings spread on the floor but unable to do anything about that while Sanguinius is such a dead weight.  
He has mostly succeeded in his task by the time his brother stirs, regaining sufficient consciousness to shift himself properly into the recovery position and groan something, breath wheezing in and out of his bruised throat.  
Once satisfied that he has done all he can for his fellow primarch, he turns to watch the ongoing fight, the dance of father and son.  
The Emperor, he realises, is holding back — why is he holding back?  
_Alpharius died for this,_ a voice in his head says, suddenly, unbidden. He banishes it. The combatants duel on.  
"Am I dead?" Sanguinius has found his voice, although it is broken.  
"No."  
"I thought I was dead. I thought I would be dead."  
"You're alive," Omegon tells him, "you're going to be fine. I'm looking after you now."  
Squinting, Sanguinius's eyes seem to focus on him for the first time.  
"Aren't you going to kill me?"  
"Kill you?"  
"Alpha Legion," he mutters, pointing vaguely at Omegon. Oh.  
He thinks about removing his helmet, but does not know if he might need it still and does not want the first impression his brother gets of him to be of straggly, sweaty hair and an unshaven face.  
"I'm one of the good ones," he says instead.  
Sanguinius drifts back into a stupor; Omegon returns his attention to the battle.  
Horus's sword is raised high above his head and their father cannot move in time to block it. No one is coming; he hasn't done enough. He has to move.  
_Alpharius died for this._  
_It is my duty._  
_He died for this cause._  
_He was mad. I must do this._  
_Alpharius died-_  
_I am_ NOT _Alpharius._  
With a roar, Omegon springs forwards, stumbles — damn his hip, damn Chaos — not enough, but his sword is outstretched just so that he can deflect Horus's away, although his arm wrenches and he thinks he feels something snap such that only his will keeps the limb up for long enough that the traitor's blade skims the Emperor's face instead of cutting straight through him.  
Then, that same edge is swinging back towards him and he is too off balance, and it is parting his flesh like soft butter, and a fist slams into his chest, shattering his Adamantium and Plasteel shell and body within and he is flying, then floating, and he does not know if he is floating towards the cold, hard floor, or if he has already hit it so hard that he has bounced off again, but his vision is fading now and all around him, there is light.


	8. VIII.  The Emperor always comes first.

Valdor almost stops the moment he enters the room. Almost.   
Off to the side lies a crumpled pile of black and blue armour, broken in a way that does not look healthy and bleeding sluggishly. In the middle of the hall kneels the Emperor, shaking as blood drips from His face, gaze fixed on the negligible heap of soot on the floor which was presumably once the Archtraitor.   
Omegon. The Emperor.   
Love. Duty.   
Omegon will understand. He matches Rogal Dorn's pace to the Master of Mankind, skidding to one knee before Him.   
"Father-"   
"Hurry..."   
His master has spoken and so Valdor wastes no time in wrapping an arm under His shoulders and pulling Him to His feet as Dorn does the same.   
The primarch Sanguinius, although wounded, has sufficient strength that he is able to stand with support from two of his sons and, loathe to remove any of his Custodians from action, Valdor nods two Imperial Fists towards Omegon, half expecting that Dorn will try to kick up a fuss. Fortunately, the primarch has eyes only for his wounded father and so raises no objection to the Alpha Legion armour, merely waving the Astartes off to do as the Captain-General has ordered.   
"Hurry."   
They begin to move through the corridors as quickly as their wounded will allow them, battling through the misshapen traitors until finally they are back in the Imperial Palace, traipsing much quieter halls.   
Too infused with battle hormones to do otherwise, the marines bearing the two wounded primarchs follow them to the Golden Throne.   
And it is not a pretty sight.   
The Sigillite is taut on the throne, body trying to convulse but unable to from the stress, steaming, screaming in tooth-aching silence.   
Without warning, the Emperor lurches forwards, reaching for his long-time friend.   
"Hurry!"   
The tech-priests converge on Him to make the swap and Constantin turns away as they do to look the Ninth in the eye.   
"You should seek medical attention, my lord."   
Sanguinius is staring dazedly at his father. A moment later, as if only just hearing him, he seems to return to his senses and, noticing Omegon, begins to sluggishly direct Blood Angels to help, accepting assistance to stand himself.   
Once satisfied that they are moving, Valdor returns his gaze to the Golden Throne, just in time to take the feverish, strangely incorporeal body of the Lord Regent, who takes a few stuttering breaths, then falls silent. He is dead.   
The changeover is complete, the Emperor now slumped into the machine with His eyes closed, concentrating, and so Dorn manages to tear his eyes from the form of his father to glance around the room.   
The doors close behind the other two primarchs and Dorn double-takes, dark eyes flickering back to them with a haunted terror.   
Then, he shakes himself and returns his attention to the Emperor.   
He is reaching out with what little strength He has, mouthing soundless words.   
+Here. Give him here.+   
+He is dead.+   
Yet the Emperor continues to reach, so Valdor places the limp corpse in His arms and helps Him to position His hand on the slight man's chest, where He seems to want it.   
Rogal Dorn looks at him as if he is mad.   
"What are you — he's dead."   
The Emperor's head tilts forwards; He seems to be concentrating even more than He had been before.   
A rattling, pneumonic noise fills the quiet that has fallen in their little section of the room, followed by another rasping breath, then another.   
Valdor looks at the primarch next to him.   
"He always has a plan."   
Dorn nods his acknowledgement.   
After a time, their relapse into silence is broken by the news that the traitors are in retreat, which seems to revitalise Rogal Dorn.   
"We will hunt them down," he declares, then looks around the hall, then back at Valdor. "Is this all you have?"   
His voice is rightfully bleak; the few hundred battered Custodes scattered around the room make for a depressing sight.   
"All who made it off the Vengeful Spirit."   
Given the number of Chaos affiliates still on board, those who did not teleport off with them can be presumed dead.   
Dorn swallows.   
"I will leave some of my Imperial Fists to guard the palace as well, then."   
"We have enough men. We can cover a few key positions."   
But the primarch shakes his head.   
"No." He takes a moment to collect his words and when he speaks, he does so with apparent effort to not sound dismissive. "Guard Him." Then, "This is our mess, it is ours to clean up and, with the arrival of my brothers, we will have more than enough men to do so. So guard Him. We need Him."   
Looking around at the bedraggled few in golden armour, Valdor knows that there would be no point in arguing even if he were so inclined.   
He takes the peace offering.   
"We will. May you have good fortune in your hunting."   
Dorn smiles — not a cold one, but not one he likes nonetheless — and claps a hand onto Valdor's shoulder.   
"And I hope to see the Legio Custodes returned to its former glory in the future."   
It is pity, he realises, that he sees on the Praetorian's face.   
He bows his head, Dorn does then same, turns to leave and, upon seeing the door, seems to be once more gripped by an inexplicable dread.   
He turns back.   
"Constantin, there is something I need to tell you. I need you to know."   
"What is it?"   
A beat.   
"I killed Alpharius. I killed him. He is dead."   
"I know."   
"He is dead."   
"I know."   
"Do you believe me?"   
Valdor looks into heavy eyes, sees the desperation in their fatigued depths.   
"I believe you. I believe you that Alpharius is dead."   
The primarch closes his eyes and nods to himself.   
"Good."   
Then, he turns and walks away as if nothing has happened, so Valdor also turns away, taking in the sight before him; 411 and Omegon, if he survives.   
_If he survives._  
There is no point in dwelling on him now, so Valdor directs his attention instead with vigour to the task at hand, hoping that this will serve as a distraction.


	9. IX.  He distracts your thoughts. (He gives you reason to worry. (III))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I assume some of you will have noticed, I've been posting chapters two at a time because of how short they are. Unfortunately, I've been quite busy today, so I'll try to get the second one up tomorrow instead.   
> In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this one.

The Throne Room is empty now, only the Emperor, His Companions and Lord Malcador still there.  
Valdor has nothing to do and yet a wish to be doing something, something that does not require that he leave his master's side, and so he sits by the Golden Throne to clean his weaponry, then polish his armour piece by piece.  
There is, he soon realises, a problem with this task; it is mindless and allows his thoughts to wander into places unbecoming of one of the Emperor's Chosen.  
He remembers when he first met Omegon.  
The primarch had been five, nearly fully grown, and even then still seemed to suffer the effects of being thrown so summarily from his capsule during the Scattering. This was his first proper venture into the world, and he was excited.  
Valdor thought it was pitiful when, after only half an hour of walking, the primarch became tired and needed to sit down. He also thought the boy shorter than he had imagined; when he asked the Emperor whether this was due to the trauma he had experienced at such a young age, the Master of Mankind said that this was how this son of His was supposed to be.  
As Omegon grew stronger, the Emperor had asked Valdor to train him in combat, politics and classics as He was too busy, and they passed many hours together sparring and talking in between rounds, or sitting in the library discussing all manner of things.  
"How did you fall from your pod?" he asked once.  
Omegon didn't know. All he remembered was a wrenching feeling, then falling, and then pain.  
The primarch grew stronger yet, and soon expressed a desire to see more of the outside. The Emperor seemed concerned by this.  
"We can't just say we have half a primarch," He pointed out.  
Valdor thought about it.  
"He could join the Custodians," he reasoned, as much to himself as to the Emperor. Even then, he wanted to be closer.  
As he scrubs the grime from the joints of his left gauntlet, Valdor remembers how the primarch had beamed, the radiance of it captivating him even through the barriers of time, when he had been told that he would join the Ten Thousand. He wore his armour proudly and, despite his lack of psychoconditioning, fitted in perfectly.  
Or so it seemed.  
The first time Valdor saw him cry as he checked on him in his bedroom, he did not know what to do, and so left.  
The second time, he asked what was wrong.  
"I am alone," Omegon replied at length.  
"So?" he asked. There was nothing wrong with being alone.  
In retrospect, this was not very tactful; Omegon was ashamed and offered to return his armour, but Valdor declined. "Explain it to me," he suggested.  
Omegon did, and his charisma was such that by the time he had finished, Valdor too felt a keen yearning for a lost brother and piece of his soul.  
The third time, wishing that Omegon did not feel alone, he sat with him and with the passage of time this turned into holding him, before one day he laid himself down next to the primarch in order to do this more easily, and they lay together from then on. Unfortunately, even the one night a week the Emperor insisted Omegon take to rest, although he didn't sleep, was too much for a Custodian to spare, and so he spent many of those nights trying to busy himself with various tasks that would distract him from the pain he knew was being felt.  
His boots are last to be cleaned, and as he does this he remembers the arrival of Alpharius into the Imperium.  
The two had united with great joy and been inseparable and, although Omegon seemed a little melancholy as he put away his golden armour and red cloak to don the Alpha Legion colours, he did not look back as he took up his brother's name, shaved off his hair (which, Valdor remembers, had been long and unruly, only tamed when braided, a beautiful diamond white through which he would never admit that he loved to comb his fingers), and left to join the Great Crusade.  
Valdor did not get the impression that Alpharius liked him very much and, although occasionally the Alpha Legion would return to Terra, Omegon never did.  
And then, he thinks, pulling his boot back onto his foot, came the Heresy. He thought he had lost him, then Omegon had returned, and now, regarding the trail of blood Omegon has left on the floor, he thinks that he has lost him again.  
He does not want to lose him again.  
+Go to him.+  
Valdor snaps out of his daydream of silky ivory hair, golden skin, and laughing emerald and sapphire eyes. +Go to him. I will call you should I need you.+  
Unable to refuse, Valdor stands and leaves. 

Omegon remembers waking at various points, although only long enough to bemoan to himself that he is stuck in bed again. Now, however, he regains enough awareness to hear the machines whirring and beeping around him, to sense the cool darkness of his room of old, to feel the aching fatigue that lies in every molecule of his being, and to wonder if he is still barely five years old, confined to his eternal rest, and if all of what he remembers is in fact some dream which he can't figure out to be either good or bad.  
But when Omegon opens his eyes, it is not his father by his bedside, ready to comfort him when it is all too much; it is Constantin who holds his hand in one of his, the other holding a notebook, at which he is frowning — to the extent that his flawless face does frown.  
All it takes is that Omegon tries to sit up for the Custodian's attention to snap back to the present and he feels a firm hand on his shoulder, pressing him down.  
"You must rest."  
He sighs and, in doing so, discovers how hard it is to breathe; Omegon briefly conjectures that he will be unable to speak and so is pleasantly surprised when he finds he can.  
"I hate lying in bed." No, Omegon realises, he doesn't hate lying in bed. He hates not having the option of not. "Is Father-" He breaks off, leaving the question unfinished, because Constantin is nodding.  
"He is much better, now. Not least because the forces of Chaos seem to have retreated in the hours following the destruction of the Archtraitor."  
Relief wheezes out of Omegon's lungs.  
"Oh."  
"Malcador has been to see you as well."  
_Good_ , Omegon tries to say, but finds the effort is too much and so just thinks it instead.  
"And, how long has it been?"  
Constantin looks at him, thoughtful, then,  
"Three weeks."  
Three weeks? And he is still not healed? "The Apothecary will be here soon, now that you are awake. He may well say that you may get up."  
Omegon looks over his companion, taking the time to properly drink him in for the first time in so long.  
Valdor looks down at him in turn for a long, entrancing moment before he picks up his notebook once more, tapping it. "You have earnt a new name," he informs him.  
"I'm sure you have as well."  
Constantin looks unconvinced.  
Omegon smiles and watches as Valdor's eyes become transfixed on him; he decides he likes the way the Custodian stares. "How does 'Omegon' sound?"  
"A beautiful name, but I'm not sure it's relevant."  
"You captured me."  
Then he thinks about what he actually just said, a certain heat creeping along his cheeks. It is true, but- "I think that was the drugs talking."  
Fortunately, Constantin agrees.


	10. X.  He appreciates your support.

Once the Apothecary has been and gone, Constantin allows him to climb out of bed to shave, dragging a chair along into the bathroom to place in front of the sink and nod Omegon down into.   
Sinking into the seat, he catches a glance at himself in the mirror and recoils. A matt black jungle obscures the lower portion of his face, while what skin is visible is dry, pale and grey, all crowned by his hair sticking up like so many gravity-defiant icicles.   
Omegon splashes water onto his head in an attempt to tame his unkempt mane but it has never worked. He sighs, prepares to shave; that will be something of an improvement, at least. Shaking, Omegon lifts his left hand to his face, then realises that he cannot hold it steady.   
"Constantin?"   
Although Omegon's voice is weak, his saviour is behind him in an instant. "I- Will you help me?"   
Previously, Omegon would have been hesitant to let anyone, even the Emperor, even pre-madness Alpharius, hold a blade this near to his throat, but Constantin's hands are steady and sure, and there is something confoundingly soothing about the firm scrape of the razor under his chin when it is wielded by this smooth grip. He closes his eyes and relaxes into Constantin's unwavering care until, in due course, he stops.   
"How is that?"   
Reluctantly, Omegon opens his eyes to consider.   
He'd meant to shave off all of his hair, like Alpharius, but Constantin has left that which is on top of his head untouched. Perhaps, he thinks, it is time to move on and be his own person again.   
He nods.   
"Thank you."   
Tender and affectionate, a kiss lands on his head.   
Omegon showers quickly with support from the Captain-General, then settles back into the chair to subdue his hair. He has barely taken up the comb when Constantin's hand comes to rest on his.   
"Allow me."   
He does.   
Constantin is gentle as he eases the teeth through knots and tangles, taking his time and yet moving with perfect efficiency. He even braids his hair for him, forcing the strands into place and, although he is clumsy as first, manages to make two plaits which are, Omegon thinks, albeit short through no fault of Constantin's, rather good for a beginner.   
About to say so, Omegon catches sight of himself in the mirror and stops. He pats the top of his head where the plaits start. That is not the work of a beginner.   
"Constantin?"   
"Omegon?"   
"Have you practised?"   
The Custodian takes an uncharacteristic pause before replying, and then sounds a little embarrassed.   
"I thought it might be nice, when you came back — if you came back."   
"But- How? On whom?"   
"Your father thought it a good idea as well."   
That, Omegon thinks, is an image he is glad his mind has conjured.   
"Well, it is nice," he declares, "and thank you."   
Another kiss atop his head.   
"You look wonderful," Constantin tells him. "You always do."   
Omegon does not know how he at first missed the added weight of Constantin's arms around him but they are all he needs right now, as he leans back into the Custodian. He is warm, solid and dependable, the gentle rhythm of his breathing rocking Omegon slightly, lulling him into an even deeper sensation of security.   
"Ah," Valdor murmurs after a while, removing himself from Omegon to fetch something, "I got you this."   
Lip balm. "I thought your lips must be painful, being so dry."   
"Unpleasant to kiss?" Omegon asks, applying a layer.   
"Not at all."   
Standing, he turns to look at Constantin's face.   
"How's this?"   
Then, Omegon leans forwards, brushes their lips together, feels his hearts kick as, somewhere deep within, a fire starts.   
Constantin purses his lips as he draws back.   
"Very smooth."   
"You can try it again if you like. Just to make sure."   
To Omegon's delight, Constantin seems about to oblige but then the world twists and falls from beneath him, and next he knows he is huddled against Valdor's breastplate, blinking his vision clear.   
"You should get back to bed."   
Omegon cannot argue as he is steered back to his bedroom. 

There is someone there already. Mind still shaking, Omegon cannot tell who it is but what he can see is that they are holding a familiar piece of parchment — the letter he wrote on Constantin's advice, he realises with shock — and are shaking it up and down.   
That is all he takes in before he is suddenly stumbling unsupported to his bed and collapsing onto the soft mattress as the ring of metal fills the air, then turning to see what is happening and a sword is falling towards him before its bearer is barged out of the way by a blur of gold and he is trying to sit up, to see what is happening but his vision only fills with more black and he does not understand why, and when he opens his eyes again there are a number of Custodians present, all clustered around the raging personage that is his brother, Rogal Dorn.   
Breathing as deeply as he is able and feeling the strain of it in his chest, Omegon watches as Constantin tries to reason with the other primarch, promising that he is no threat, that they are not all traitors, that the Emperor can explain.   
Dorn is incurably incandescent and continues to seethe. He looks, Omegon thinks, more exhausted than should be possible for anyone, primarch or no, dishevelled and disarranged, and that only adds to his air of derangement.   
So, once he feels able, Omegon lets his aura slip out, trying to infuse some calm into it as he climbs from the bed.   
"Brother."   
Dorn looks at him, his glare dark, intense and scalding. "I am not who you think I am."   
He approaches the titan and, surmising that he has read his letter, plucks it from his shaking hand. "Why would I write a letter to myself?"   
Dorn hisses. "I understand your confusion, and our father can explain, but in the mean time, if you could not try to kill me — Horus has already made his attempt and I am still recovering from that." There.   
Dorn deflates a little, letting go of his anger; he does not wish to associate himself with the fallen Warmaster.   
In reaction to his diminished wrath, the Custodes holding him loosen their grip, allowing Dorn to draw himself up and reassemble his dignity.   
"Very well. The Emperor had requested to see he who was there at the final battle anyway, and I am told that this is the room."   
"Yes, I was there."   
It is very rapidly coming to Omegon's attention that he was perhaps a little hasty in standing back up again, so he backs away to his bed to sit down once more.   
Dorn is still giving him a harshly curious look.   
"Well?"   
He wants to go now?   
"I need to rest a little," Omegon tells him apologetically, "and I am not well dressed."   
His brother's face twitches but he nods, allowing Omegon to sink back into his pillows and close his eyes, to take a moment to breathe.   
After a pause, he hears the chair by his bed creak and feels a presence draw near.   
"I have sent for your armour," Constantin's smooth voice says. "It can help you until we get to a lower altitude, where your lungs should struggle less. Until then, rest."   
Omegon feels a large hand stroke his hair just as he feels the eyes of a dragon on him, and decides to focus on the former sensation.


	11. XI.  The Emperor Approves.

Constantin holds his hand all the way down and although, as the Apothecary said, his hip is still fully healed and, as Constantin predicted, he finds his vision beginning to clear again when they reach the lower floors, he is still glad for the support.  
When they are in the lift, Omegon sits against the back wall and tilts his head back to rest; it is a long way down to the Imperial Dungeon. He finds that many of their Imperial Fist escort are watching him but Rogal Dorn himself has stopped and merely faces the doorway with a weary countenance; Omegon thinks that his brother would probably like to slump down next to him and close his eyes, if only for a few seconds, but will never permit himself that luxury.  
He looks so drained.  
The lift clangs to a stop and it is Constantin who lifts him back to his feet while their entourage continue to stare, their two hands slotting easily together.  
Dorn looks at them, clenches his teeth, nods, and ushers Omegon along the hallway.  
"It is a long way, so tell us if you need to rest."  
"I've been this way before."  
Dorn studies him then, taking in his aureate armour and crimson trimmings and apparently decides, as he had when he had first realised that the armour was Omegon's, that whatever questions he is formulating in his mind can simply be added to the list of things he does not know, for now.  
He marches on. 

The formalities are barely complete when Dorn is striding towards their father on the Throne, Omegon's letter, which he has insisted upon seizing as 'evidence', clutched in his fist.  
The Emperor, fortunately, looks better than he did even before the fight, as if he no longer needs quite so much effort to hold back the tide.  
About to address Omegon, he stops as he lays eyes on his snarling other son, who requests through gritted teeth that he make the promised explanation.  
+May I?+  
Omegon mentally nods as he lowers himself onto the top step by the side of the throne, and his father takes the proffered letter but does not read it, instead keeping it folded in his lap.  
Constantin sits beside him and places an arm around Omegon's shoulders to support him, pulling him close while taking care not to jostle his right arm which, despite having been stitched so that it is no longer hanging off of him, is still not properly functional.  
Unable to keep a spontaneous sense of peace from descending upon him, Omegon leans against him, moving closer as he listens to the impending conversation.  
"You should sleep, Rogal. How long has it been?"  
Dorn shakes his head; he doesn't know. The Emperor sighs. "You have reason to be concerned, however.  
"Let me tell you: you, and each of your brothers, all have various characteristics, qualities that make you special: inexplicable charisma, unaccountably keen strategic mind, preternatural skill on the battlefield. You know of what I speak." He waits until Dorn nods, then continues.  
"One such attribute of the Primarch of the Twentieth was that 'he' was two. Alpharius, who you had met, and Omegon," The Emperor nodded to him, "who you had not." He smiled a wistful smile. "And let me tell you, they were magnificent together.  
"But then, the Heresy. Alpharius declared for the traitors and so a second, covert, civil war broke out between the two. This is where you come in."  
"Father?"  
"Of course. Rogal, when you killed Alpharius, you allowed Omegon to play his hand unhindered, and in doing so alter the course of the entire Heresy. The Alpha Legion is devastated and Omegon is returned to us. It is he who has averted the tragedy which may have been, and he has been doing so this entire time."  
"Sir, you _know_ that he is loyal?"  
The Emperor's face twists a little in a frown.  
"It was Omegon who allowed the White Scars to hear your summons at Chondax. It was Omegon who told Alpharius that you could never know about his strike on Pluto, leading him to his death. It was Omegon who, aboard the Vengeful Spirit, intervened to save my life. In short: yes, I know that he is loyal."  
Pacing, Dorn takes a moment to let this sink in.  
"Why then, Father, is he wearing the armour of the Custodians?"  
+You may as well tell them all.+ Omegon replies before his father can even ask his permission.  
"When the Scattering occurred, Omegon was left behind."  
"Left behind!"  
"Yes. So, while we searched for Alpharius, he joined the Custodians."  
Perhaps expecting a more complex explanation, Dorn stares for a while longer while the the Emperor sends for the rest of the primarchs.  
Then, he glances at Omegon, nods to himself, and comes to kneel before him.  
"Brother, it seems I owe you an apology." Omegon puts his left hand into Dorn's outstretched ones as his fellow primarch shakes his head, a slightly rueful smile hinting at his stern lips. "I thought I was going mad," he adds as he gently squeezes Omegon's hand. "I kept thinking I had seen Alpharius, felt his presence." He shakes his head again. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Brother."  
"And to meet you too." 

Sanguinius is next to arrive, and is prompt in asking where the marine who had saved him is as, when he went to see him having heard that he was awake, he was no longer in his chambers.  
"Omegon?" their father asks, directing the Angel to him.  
"A Custodian! I had not-"  
"It is a little more complicated than that," Omegon tells him as he too kneels, this time to thank him, "but Father will explain in time."  
Sanguinius studies him with scrutinising eyes. "You look better than you did," he adds.  
Smiling, his brother nods.  
"I do not know entirely why, but I'm assuming you had something to do with that."  
"It was only my duty."  
"I thank you anyway."  
His smile is brilliant, blinding, all-encompassing.  
It is as Sanguinius starts to stand again that,  
"Constantin!"  
Apparently, Leman Russ arrived while Sanguinius's wings were blocking Omegon's view of the room at large.  
He swaggers over to them now, larger-than-life faux personality on full blast. "You've got yourself a girlfriend."  
"Boyfriend." Omegon mutters.  
"I have?" Constantin seems confused, so Omegon turns to focus on him, on his chiselled face.  
"Do you want to have a boyfriend?"  
"If you mean you, then I suppose, yes."  
Without waiting to ask permission, a grin spreads itself across Omegon's face.  
"He has a boyfriend," he tells Russ, cuddling up a little closer to the Custodian.  
"What, did Father give you all souls to celebrate?"  
But behind the bombast, Omegon can see the way that he is critically scanned until eventually, Russ turns his attention fully onto him. "Were you at Prospero?"  
"No."  
"Where is it, then, that we have met before?"  
"Need we have?"  
"I have seen your face, I know it."  
Eyes fixed, he leers in such that Omegon feels forced to lean back. "I know you."  
"Under a different name, perhaps."  
Russ cocks an eyebrow, so he continues, "You will make sense of it soon enough."  
Russ glares, eyes nothing short of piercing, but fortunately, the Emperor intervenes. Oh.  
The Emperor.  
" _Constantin_ ," he hisses, and nods to his father. A heartbeat, then Valdor knows what is wrong.  
Will he disapprove? Will he be angry? Will he allow them to stay together?  
But their fears are cut off by the sound of soft laughter in their heads.  
+You two didn't think that I would know?+  
+Father?+  
Behind Constantin, Omegon can see his creator turn to smile at them and is filled with warmth, light, and relief.


	12. XII.  Admit It, You Love Him.

Last to arrive is Corvus Corax, the Raven Lord.  
Dragging with him the morose air of the shadows, he greets the Emperor in a sombre manner. Valdor thinks that, like Dorn, he could do with a proper sleep.  
It is as he waits for the Emperor to begin talking that Omegon, whose head is tilted placidly against his shoulder, stirs, turning to angle his sea green eyes up at Constantin's.  
"The package I gave you to look after, do you have it?"  
Of course he has it; he has carried it in his armour at all times except when going to fight. Delicately, Valdor removes the bundle from its storage place and hands it over then is surprised when, upon, taking it, Omegon hauls himself to his feet to hail the latest of his brothers to arrive.  
Corax looks down on him with critical eyes.  
"Custodian."  
Drawing up a few steps away, Omegon stops and bows.  
"I am sorry," he whispers, holding out the bundle, "I am so sorry." Corax is slow in taking parcel, hesitant to look inside it, but once he does, his next actions are very fast indeed.  
All at once Valdor registers the horror and repulsion on his face, the way he almost drops his burden, the gleam of enlightenment lighting his jet eyes, the crack of something breaking, the whir of Omegon's armour as he stumbles back, the cries from around the room, the blood dripping from his boyfriend's — even in the midst of the action, Constantin likes that word — face.  
It is only then that he realises that he himself has moved and now steadies Omegon with an arm around his chest, the other raising his spear before them; enough to deflect, but not to wound. And the primarch opposite stares at him as if he had gone insane.  
"What are you doing? Do you not know who he is? Do you not know what he has done?"  
Valdor does not need to know what Omegon has done.  
"This is no time to fight," he replies simply. It is fortunate, he thinks, that at this point Sanguinius reaches them, laying a hand immediately on his brother's arm.  
"Corvus," he says into the beady-eyed glare now turned onto him, "I do not know what you know about this man, or what he has done to you, but you should know that he has saved not only my life, but our father's. Please, reserve your judgement. This is unlike you."  
Constantin decides that this is his best opportunity to get Omegon to safety, so begins to drag him back, sitting him back down and taking a handkerchief to help wipe the blood from his face.  
Fortunately, the primarch has already healed enough that he is no longer actively bleeding and so he gently dabs the remaining fluids away as gently as he can, fixing his focus on the beautiful countenance before him as the remaining primarchs descend into squabbling over who or what Omegon might be.  
"There."  
"Is that all of the blood?"  
"Yes."  
"Are you sure?"  
"Yes."  
"There's none left, say, on my lips?"  
"I don't think so."  
"I don't mind if you check."  
Omegon is inventive in his methods of asking for a kiss but Valdor complies nevertheless, leaning in to feel his lips, now softer for the lip balm but chapped all the same, and perhaps he hears the primarchs commenting on this but they do not matter; only two things in this world matter and one of them is pressed against him, while the other slips into his mind to observe that he is surprisingly good at kissing for his level of experience, and then leaves so he is left to Omegon, who is beautiful and perfect and timeless.  
But even eternity must come to an end and Omegon's lungs are weak still, so all too soon the primarch pulls away and rests his head on Constantin's chest to pant.  
The Emperor looks down to them, a smile evident on His noble face.  
"Shall we?"  
Omegon tenses against him, casts a glance at the quibbling group of warlords before them, and gives a determined nod. 

"You should be back in bed."  
Bleary-eyed, Omegon nods as he tries to hold himself upright, but makes no effort to move.  
"It's comfortable."  
He is right, it is comfortable to sit like this together, not quite on top of each other but not merely side by side either.  
"I'll lie with you," Valdor promises, "if you want me to."  
"Well, of course I want you to. You're my boyfriend."  
"Of course."  
Without warning, Omegon moves, gaining his feet with an agility which can only be described as post-human.  
Dodging his quarrelling brothers, who have fortunately decided that Omegon is not quite such an object of interest anymore and so left them alone, he makes his way to stand before the Emperor.  
Valdor watches as the primarch leans forwards to press a kiss to his father's cheek, wishes that those sweet-tasting lips will perform a similar action against his, witnesses as he takes the folded parchment in remembrance of Alpharius from the Emperor's lap and lights the end of it with a flame which He holds out.  
Very suddenly, seven of the primarchs are paying attention again; Rogal Dorn appears to have at some point finally given into the urge to close his eyes, if only for a few seconds, and fallen asleep against the wall.  
"What are you-"  
Omegon stumbles before Guilliman can finish and Valdor is by his side before he himself can blink, holding him gently and guiding him back down to sit.  
"We have lost a lot," Omegon replies simply once he is steady, eyes closed. "We'll all need to move on at some time."  
And to Valdor's astonishment, there is no fighting, no arguing.  
"To the future." This voice is as feeble as Omegon's, although when its source is revealed, he is a much frailer man by appearance.  
Nonetheless, Omegon smiles to hear the voice and Valdor's heart — no, all of him — is warmed in an unbidden appreciation of the beauty of his face which, although in reality pale, is made golden again by the light of his farewell to his astray other half.  
After only a few more sweet moments with Valdor's cheek pressed to the primarch's, the flame burns to the very end, and so Omegon lets the last embers of his twin's memory scatter as they fall to the stone floor.  
"You've arrived at a most inconvenient time, Uncle; I was just about to go to bed."  
"Well then, you tell Constantin to take good care of you."  
Omegon smiles again against the bony knuckles which nudge fondly against his cheek, throwing soft morning sunbeams around the room.  
"He will."  
Feeling that his boyfriend would be better not to have to walk back to his bedroom, Valdor takes great care as he scoops him into his arms with a kiss pressed to his cheek.  
"We'll sort everything out," he assures him, hoping to avert the risk of upset after all that has happened, "together."  
But, to his surprise, Omegon does not seem about to cry and instead clings onto him with his good arm as they leave the hall. 

Tomorrow, Valdor will evaluate the infants of the refugees for any potential Custodians while Omegon heads out to hunt down the last of his ruined legion, but today they have only each other.  
Since the primarch was wounded, they have got into the habit of lying together without armour, as Constantin did not want to jostle his delicate companion — boyfriend — too much, and now it is simply nice to lay themselves down and press together, skin warm through their thin underlayers, and feel their hearts beat as one.  
So here they are, tucked in to each other, doing no more than simply being, simply feeling that they are near.  
Omegon is restful as he pushes up against him, closer than Valdor ever thought possible, his skin once more a healthy hue, cobalt eyes, half-closed, gazing into his, and Valdor swears that he is burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end.  
> I really hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. 
> 
> This is the first multi-chapter fic I've posted, so any feedback is really appreciated.  
> Also, if you'd like to see more, I can't say I won't be tempted to write pieces set in the past/future of this little relationship.


End file.
